No title

The blame shall squarely rest on my shoulders. Not merely as a reflection of my actions, but for the woeful lack thereof. Woe to those who stand unwaveringly on the tracks as the unyielding sound of the train's horn assaults the senses. As it draws nearer, vibrations travel from toes to heels, up the ankles, reaching waist level before a decision must be made.

We leap away at the final moment, narrowly escaping utter obliteration, only to repeat the cycle tomorrow. God bless America! Only in a land of comfort can we find solace in self-destruction. We prefer the indirect approach to our problems, if we approach them at all; redirecting our strongest offenses back upon ourselves.

To sleep, perhaps to dream; to live, perhaps to quietly embrace death. The odds forever favor you, for all deaths are quiet.